Friday, 30 March 2012

I’ve struggled a bit recently. My youngest has Chicken Pox. Of
course, it would be no big deal in the general run of things. OK it seemed a
little unfair as it was her second bout – the last was ten years ago when she
was just five years old – but it was just Chicken Pox. No big deal. All kids
get it don’t they.

Except that I know it can kill. I know of a little girl
whose mum grieves for her because of Chicken Pox. I have read of the pain that
she lives with every day. And it really doesn’t matter how you lost your child –
it hurts.

But it matters that I
know that it is possible to die from Chicken Pox. Oh I know the statistical chance of my child dying from
it is pretty slim. I know that she’s unlikely
to develop any complications. Hmm, who am I kidding! I’ve spent the past few
days trawling the web for info about what signs to look for. I now know that it
seems to be worse the older you are – and she has suffered a lot more this
time. She’s had flu like symptoms as well as the infernal itching. She’s
fifteen so it’s timed beautifully for the middle of GCSE preparation – that’s
her biggest worry. I’ve nursed her and nagged her about keeping cool enough and
I’ve forced myself to work each day because I couldn’t allow her to see the
gibbering wreck I was. I rang her a couple of times each day and she became
increasingly frustrated with me. “Yes Mum I’m fine - I was watching telly until
you interrupted.” Losing her brother was
bad enough; I don’t need to pass on my fears as well.

The spots are almost finished now and in a couple of days
she’ll no longer be contagious and it will all be over. It pretty much is for
her now. She’s had a few days to skive off school, watch daytime telly, read trashy
teenage mags, and moan that it won’t be her fault if she doesn’t perform as
well in exams as she could have done. It’s been a minor inconvenience for her.
And that’s as it should be I guess.

I know the theory. I know the stats. I know it’s unlikely to happen. But then if someone
had given me the odds on whether I’d lose one of my three children when he
crossed the road, I would have dismissed that as highly unlikely too.

He is gone. And everything takes on a new meaning. Stats
(once my refuge – my degree was in Psychology – a statistician’s dream) have
become meaningless. What I would once have considered a blip became so hard to
manage.

And now I look at her and am relieved she’s OK . And I think of Susan
and Catherine - who weren’t. And I wish ...

Sunday, 11 March 2012

In two and a half months, it will be the third anniversary
of Al’s death. Right now, I feel differently about it than I did as I
approached the last two anniversaries. I guess I now know that so few will
notice, and even fewer will acknowledge it. Maybe a part of me is starting to
be able to accept that. I don’t think I’ll ever be OK with it or see it as
reasonable – but I’m no longer shocked by it. Saddened and resentful, yes – shocked, no.

I feel calmer. Whether it will last as the day approaches
has yet to be seen but I definitely don’t feel as panicked or have the same
sense of trepidation. Maybe I’ll manage to get my act together and order the
Birds of Paradise in time rather than burying my head in the sand and then dashing
round at the last moment.

As a way of distracting myself from the discussions about to
take place when we were sat waiting at the lawyers, I’d started to tell my
friend about the incident with the stupid woman at the dance class but we were
called in.

Afterwards, I began again and recounted the whole incident.
At the end she didn’t say, “Blimey that must have been painful to hear.” Or, “What
a shame she wasn’t able to consider what she said.” Instead, she said, “It
sounds as if she was embarrassed and didn’t know what to say.” Why is it that
people think they need to explain away someone’s crass insensitivity – as if crass
insensitivity is acceptable. Why did that woman require MY sensitivity and
understanding for HER lack of it? I know she was embarrassed and didn’t know
what to say. But when in doubt, say nothing. And if you do find yourself saying
such a stupid thing, surely the correct thing to do would be to apologise. Why
did my friend think it’s less unacceptable for me, when I am grieving, to be more
understanding? I’m fed up of being expected to be the bigger person when I feel
so diminished.

On Friday, I attended an appointment with a lawyer. For the
last two years, the firm have been gently reminding me that I need to provide
info about Al. And I’ve been procrastinating because it just seems plain wrong
to talk of my son in terms of a monetary loss.

The Government has a set figure for situations like mine. It
seems that my son was worth £11,800. Apparently, some think it should be much
higher. But just how do you set a price on someone’s life? Conversely, others
feel that it should be scrapped altogether as whatever price is set is an
insult. In my detached moments, I see both arguments – well, they both amount
to the same thing really. I understand, unfortunately all too well, just why it’s
a difficult area. Anyway, I’m running out of time because the wheels have to be
set in motion within three years of Al’s anniversary and that date is fast
approaching. The thing is that given the choice, I’d rather it was scrapped
altogether. The amount, whilst not entirely insignificant to me as a single
mum, won’t make much of a difference to our lives and it is an insult to
suggest that it in any way compensates for Al’s loss of life. I notice that it
is never referred to as ‘compensation’ thank goodness – I think I’d explode if
it were.

My friend offered to accompany me to the appointment and suggested
we go for lunch afterwards. Until she offered, I hadn’t realised just how tense
I was about it. I’d deliberately packed the morning full so that I didn’t have
time to dwell too much on things so I dashed to get my youngest to school, flew
over to get the car MOTd and went to collect my friend so that we could get
into town on time.

We arrived and I met the legal
executive I’ve already met once before. The lawyer arrived and while we waited
for some paperwork, he floored me by saying, “So – tell me about Alexander.
What was he like?” In an instant, I knew that this was clearly a technique to
get me to talk about him so that I’d be more easily able to cope with the nitty-gritty
discussions later on. But although I grasped that straight away, I froze. I’d
been prepared for cold, clinical, detached descriptions of driver/victim
liability but I simply hadn’t been prepared for a question about my boy. I didn’t
want to discuss his likes and dislikes, his foibles, his personality. I wanted
to keep my son out of that room. With hindsight, it seems mad that I could even
think this possible but I’d wanted to keep him out of it and refer to
everything almost in an academic sense. If I didn’t take him into that room, it
was just a business discussion about something abstract.

Damn me for being the compliant, polite type - It simply isn’t
courteous to ignore or refuse to answer a question. I replied with, “What do
you want to know about him?” But the first half of the sentence was merely a
croak as the words were stuck in my throat. He said he wanted to get a feel for
the kind of lad he was.

‘A feel’? Damn! Damn!
Damn! That was the last thing I wanted. I didn’t want to feel at all and
anything that brought him to life (the irony of that phrase hit me like a sledgehammer
as it popped into my head) was something I needed to avoid right then.

Anyway, as I said, I was raised to be polite so I complied
and began to describe him and the kind of lad he was. As I talked, it got a
little easier and I became increasingly animated and was able to smile at some
of the things I recounted. I guess the lawyer knew his job well.

Anyway, the paperwork arrived and we got down to the
business of the day. It seems that the driver’s insurance company had
originally said that as there was some suggestion of him playing chicken, they
should reduce the amount they paid out by 30%. The amount was irrelevant. It
was the fact that they used the driver’s ‘excuse’ that he thought my son was
playing chicken. He was the only person to say it. None of the other witnesses
supported this. Not one! But the insurance company tried it on anyway. I know
it’s a business. I know it’s their job to save money. I know that they view it
in that cold, clinical way I’d wanted to use in order to preserve myself. They
saw the amount of money they had to pay out as collateral damage. But this was
my boy. He was my son – a human being. And yet he was reduced to a few figures
on a bit of paper.

I wanted to scream, “You
didn’t know him. You never delighted in the way he sang along to Snow White and
the Seven Dwarfs and couldn’t pronounce the ‘th’ in ‘thing’ so, until he was
six, it always sounded like ‘sing’. You never sat up at nights worried about whom
he was with. You didn’t stand with your heart bursting with pride when he was
all dressed up for his school prom night. So how can you decide how much he was
worth? And how dare you try to suggest he deliberately taunted a driver by
playing chicken!”

I knew it was a balance-sheet decision but it ripped into
me. It was the percentages that did it. They were saying that my son was 30% to
blame. They actually quantified it. Before entering that building, I knew that
logically it was going to be that way, but to face the cold, stark reality of
it was another matter entirely. My friend, who had sat quietly until now,
interrupted with, “Beverley understands that these decisions need to be made
but what she finds difficult is the percentage.” The lawyer asked if the 30%
was at issue or the very fact that any percentage was used. We both chorused, “The
fact that any percentage is used.” He then said that they could just get the
company to make a total offer and thereby remove the percentage because this is
a common issue. It felt easier that way so I agreed.

As I said earlier, I’d have found it easier to not have had
to go through this but, in the very early days after Al died, his dad contacted
the police to enquire about compensation. The very fact that he did this, and
just how quickly he did it, still never fails to sicken me. I suppose I could
have left him to deal with it but Al was my son and it feels important to me
that I stick up for him in whatever way I can. I’m his mum (not, ‘I was his mum’).
I will always be his mum and so it’s my job. His dad (and I use the term
loosely) preferred to be more of a mate – and a fair-weather one at that. This
effectively meant that Al only had the one parent. And in the same way that I
wouldn’t have entrusted my son’s reputation to one of his mates, particularly
one who seemed to be far too focussed on how much money was available, I wasn’t
about to entrust it to that man. I don’t know why it matters so much to me that
some faceless person in some insurance company clinically attaches a specific
proportion of blame to my son but it does. It matters!

In the end, we left with a small list of info I need to
supply and a deadline. Knowing my tendency to procrastinate around this issue, I’d
specifically requested it and the Legal Executive had been a bit woolly in her
reply. She clearly thought she was being kind. The lawyer interjected with, “By
Easter at the very latest.” He’d understood that was what I needed.

We left and went for a quick coffee as my friend was on a
diet and had her grandson to look after. Just as well really – I was in need of
comfort and would have devoured all the cakes in the café given half a chance.

Tuesday, 6 March 2012

I was at my usual Tuesday
evening dance class with my youngest this evening. It’s a 12-week beginner’s
course and we’re kind of enjoying it. It would be better if we hadn’t had new
people start every single week, which meant the instructor taught the same
dances week in, week out. Anyway, she’s offered us the opportunity to stay on
each week for the improvers’ class free of charge. She said that it wasn’t her
fault we’ve been fast learners. Hmm. Anyway, I won’t complain. I quite enjoyed
staying on and observing, and joining in the more advanced class a little
tonight.

The evening was tarnished somewhat by an exchange
though. It all started when my 15-year-old got a text from her mate in the
middle of the class. The instructor was going through something with the
newbies. Some of us had done it all before and were chatting away until she
finished. My daughter decided to reply to the text. I noticed and asked her to
put the mobile away explaining that it was bad mannered to send or read texts
in the middle of a class. The instructor noticed and asked her to put the mobile
away telling her it was considered poor etiquette to use a mobile during class.
I thought she handled it well and my daughter put it away.

Ten minutes later, during another lull, I noticed
the mobile out again and in a somewhat irritated tone said, “Put it away –
now!” Another woman smiled at me conspiratorially and said, “These kids and
their mobiles.”

Then she turned to my daughter saying, “You know
these phones are not good. They can cause all kinds of problems. You can even
get kids crossing the road using them.”

I interrupted, “Thanks but actually ...”

“You never know what’s round the corner just using
a mobile and suddenly...”

Again, I interrupted, “Please don’t. The thing is
...”

“They’re so focussed on these daft phones - they
don’t see the car coming ...”

Again, I tried, “No really. Please stop. Please
don’t. You see...”

“And then, before you know it, they’re dead. Just
like that.”

It was too late. She was so focussed on the lesson
she wanted to give, she just hadn’t been able to listen.

“Yes we know. That’s just how my son died.”

“Oh dear.” Her expression flickered for just a
second. She looked unsure - just for a second. Then it was replaced by a look
of, well the smile was almost triumphant, “And that just proves my point. Don’t
use a mobile” (little nudge to my daughter’s ribs accompanied by a
conspiratorial wink at me) “They’re bad for you.” With a laugh, she turned back
to get in line for the next part of the lesson.

I guess my son’s death was at least useful then. It
reinforced her point so I ought to be grateful that she was able to support me.
The thing is that what I would have preferred was that as soon as I had said
how my son died, she could have replied, “I’m so sorry. I can see how my
example might be difficult for you to hear.” It was the smile on her face as
she smugly announced, “And that just proves my point,” that made me want to
slap her.

I won’t recount this incident when I’m at work
tomorrow because I just know that I’ll be met with, “Oh she was probably
embarrassed”, or, “She probably didn’t mean it like that/it came out wrong”, or
the old chestnut, “Well people don’t know what to say do they.” As if that
excuses it.

I accept that any of those might be an explanation
– but never an excuse. Never!

About Me

Until 30th May 2009, I was mum to 3 young people. Two girls, 13 and 20, and a boy, 17. Suddenly, with a brief phone call, I was plunged into a nightmare. My son, Al, was dead - killed when crossing the road, by a man who, mistakenly, thought he was playing chicken and so decided to call his bluff.